


This is Where We Are--Interludes

by PurpleCompromise



Series: The Heart of Surgeoning [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Missing Scene, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6743155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleCompromise/pseuds/PurpleCompromise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion piece to "This Is Where We Are Now," where I'll post any chapters that I choose to write from a different perspective (often Medic's, since it's a popular request and very helpful) or any scenes that simply don't make it into TiWWaN for one reason or another, but could still be part of the continuity of the story. </p><p>And, as always: 50% realism, 50% escapism, 100% guilty pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 23 Revisit [Medic]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A revisit to chapter 23, just after Spesh politely refuses a surgery and Medic has stormed out of the mess hall.

Medic prowls down the hall, a frown etched firmly on his face. Yes, the specialist could suit herself, but she really ought to suit _him_.  How can he be expected to maintain progress if the vessel for his experiment was so uncooperative? _This_ , he thinks, is the trouble with using living, human subjects and not being allowed to ignore their personal wishes.

He should have used Heavy. Heavy never complained, and never had better things to do than help him on an otherwise dull Saturday. Well--Medic pushes moodily through the infirmary’s double-doors and they swing disappointingly shut behind him, without the resolute slam this situation warrants--he will certainly have some choice words for Scout by the time this is all said and done.

For now, the doctor unlocks his office, throws himself on the chair.

 _Verdammt_ woman.

He shuffles through the files on his desk. He can’t put his concept into practice, but he _can_ review the data again; it's better than nothing.

The first page of data is a series of barely legible charts—calculations, numbers, and frustrated scratches, pools of ink, and several formulas repeated in pencil. The initial surgery could have killed her, easily. In fact, initial calculations refused to yield higher than a 38.6% chance of survival with such an unpredictable variable as experimental cybernetics. This fact did not trouble Medic; he could always try again, perhaps on Heavy—who could not die—and though Medic preferred fresh blood, a control, in the case of failure, Heavy would have been better than nothing. Miss Pauling, however, insisted that in order for the experiment to go forward, Medic should increase the new mercenary’s chances of survival to at least 70%; death was not a problem, per se, but the work required to cover it up and to try the hiring process again… it was not something the woman cared to add to her endless list of tasks, not to mention a monetary loss she did not care to explain to her superiors. Medic agreed, and raised the probability quite easily:

He lied.

Honestly, did Miss Pauling really think he and the engineer had not already exhausted every avenue to raise the probability of survival? Receiving due sanction was as simple as inking “70.23%” in the proper paperwork. Nothing extreme, nothing too even, lest Miss Pauling get suspicious. There was a reason she was the supervisor for such a… distinct group.

But that was neither here, there, nor anywhere. The specialist lived—lived only to deny his wishes now, it seems—and all that remained of that first, original, unfortunate calculation was this single page of data.

The next page in Specialist’s file is the record pulled from her hometown’s hospital: family history, vaccines, allergies, vitals from her last visit. He discovered nothing to adversely affect his experimentation after a quick screening related to a worrisome spot in her family history. After that: one clean bill of health. Ideal.

Well, it _would_ be ideal if she were here now, letting him compare notes from yesterday! He had even held off on proper surgery. Certainly, he hadn’t wanted to risk affecting the results, but his inaction was generous all the same, surely! _Ungrateful_ , that’s what she is. Medic huffs, the folder dropping to his desk with a snap. He rests a hand along his jaw. Ungrateful. Ungrateful, like stubborn. Stubborn, like willful.

Willful, the way she grasped his wrists and pinned his hands to the gurney. That was--that was three days ago now, the way her eyes flashed, wide and wild. Fingers clawed at his lapels, found his necktie and, oh, he’d never had a reason to regret his attire before, but with his breath constricting, pulse jumping at his throat--

Of course, she was not fully lucid, weary and concussed from battle, and her fingers could yet be pried from his clothing, and the commotion drew Sniper had the case been otherwise. Sniper’s aid was instrumental in talking her down, but if Medic could have been allowed to see the devastation of her hands just a little longer…

Well. As it was, she had left quite a mess for him to clean. The willful, desperate purpose had interested him--how could this compliment the power of the heart, of über? Or would the über be affected by these introduced variables? There had not been enough data, but he _was_ able to see it again, played out on his double this time. Delicious. Strangulation again, but this time totally, willfully, controlled, biting into skin until the last possible moment. Death was not enough, no, suffering was priority, and those sharp eyes wanted to _see_ it.

Medic’s fingers run absently along his thigh.

The BLU’s taunts, her bitten-off phrases, the razor-edged threats—they all told him what he needed to know. His doppelganger, that— _hack_ , that _schweinhund_ —had healed her up to keep her alive, as he examined Medic’s work. The audacity, the utter _gall_ , the stolen pride, the cheating, the underhanded guile--and what a fucking wonder that imitation equipment even worked on--

 _That’s it!_ The medi-gun!

His chair squeaks and scrapes as he leaps to his feet and snatches up the folder as he dashes back into the infirmary. He cannot work on the heart itself, but the _medi-gun_. Why hasn’t he considered adjusting efficiency from _both_ sides? Well—he will be correcting that immediately.


	2. Chapter 29.5 [Medic]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place just after the specialist has gone to respawn following her run-in with the BLU spy. I needed to figure out what was going on with Medic before I could finish drafting chapter 30.

Medic is fresh from respawn when Spy approaches, smooth as oil, from outside. The doctor stops in his count of every nerve that flares to life with a fiery pinprick when the agent comes into view, and peers over his spectacles. “ _Inanis est infernum?_ ” he asks.

“ _Hic omnia daemonia_ ,” the man agrees.

It will be a shame, Medic thinks, when they must exchange a new code. Latin translation was his idea, of course, but the original phrase is simply so appropriate that he fears they are not likely to have another so apt anytime soon. Perhaps they will agree on a calculation next--numbers to keep that BLU bastard on his toes, hm?

Spy takes a long drag from his cigarette, mouth creased in a terse line. There is blood on the white paper where his gloved fingers have left their mark.

“Put your little vendetta on hold,” he says gravely.

The doctor frowns, lines appearing sharply around his mouth. “What are you talking about? I have been vith Heavy since the battle started.”

“And where has your subject been?”

Medic’s mind flashes to the operating table, to the bastard who wears his face. Anger blossoms in his chest. He’ll have that man strung up with his own intestines if he has _again_ dared touched his work, his opus, his genius, his--

“She spent at least twenty minutes under the knife of my counterpart until I put her out of her misery, _docteur_.”

The doctor’s brow furrows. That--is unexpected. Well, perhaps not so, after the specialist’s performance when the two last met in close quarters. But why wait five days to take revenge? Medic must admit he is relieved; this is much less complex, and his work is safe. For the moment.

(He shouldn’t have to tell the woman not to let herself get cut open, but perhaps he should reiterate just how _important_ it is beyond simple personal safety…)

“He waited until the most opportune time,” says Spy. “Whatever you did, I suggest you do not repeat.”

Medic can feel a smirk curling at his lips. “But it was not me; the specialist provoked him herself.”

Spy takes a long drag on his cigarette. His eyes search Medic’s face--the doctor does not care what for. The memory of blood warms his fingertips. The spark of wrath that burned in her eyes, pulled through her shoulders and guided the doctor’s weapon with a violence that snapped his wrist and pulled the unfortunate man into his chest, head cradled like a violin in his shoulder, the specialist bowing a delicate throat with unrestrained passion.

“He wanted her to suffer as long as possible.” A long stream of smoke passes Spy’s lips. “Severed the tendons of her arms so she could not move. Broke her nose. There were abrasions on her face. He punctured one lung. She had just enough air to keep from dying.”

The doctor hums. “Helpless and struggling to breathe. Clearly she made an impression with her method. But--she _did_ put him out of his misery.” The smile pulls at his mouth again. “After his head was hanging mostly off his neck.”

Medic studies the agent’s face--as much as is visible. Grey eyes crinkle painfully at their edges, the impression of a furrowed brow somewhere beneath the balaclava. His mouth is thin around the end of his cigarette. Spy gazes back levelly, holds the breath of smoke in a long while before releasing it in one puff.

“She is being processed through respawn as we speak,” is his only reply.

“You expect me to wait?” Medic asks.

“I expect you to be aware,” Spy waves the cigarette in his gloved hand. “And now you are.”

“ _Danke_ ,” says Medic. He utters the syllable, but his mind is not with the word. He’s thinking. Thinking about stress, about flesh, about electricity and muscle. About respawn. About the War, and about cries that have no words.

Acute Stress Reaction was not a problem-- _should not_ be a problem, not unless…

Well. He could concern himself with all that later.

“What a mess,” he grumbles, out under the merciless sun.

But, really, the whole mess _could_ have been avoided. And he has no one to blame on that front but himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: "Hell is empty?" "All the devils are here." The original phrase ("Hell is empty, and all the devils are here!") was taken from William Shakespeare's _The Tempest_.  
>  \---  
> So... I should have chapter 30's draft cleaned up and ready for beta this week, if all goes well with work.


End file.
